Shards

His words slap across my face. 

No wait. 

He actually slapped me. 

I bring my hand to my cheek. It would be swollen tomorrow. I turn away from him to look at my two younger siblings that I stand in front of. 

“Get upstairs. Go do homework,” I say firmly.

My sister, Taylor, looks at me terrified; my brother, Bryce, has single tear down his cheek.

“Go,” I repeat. They turn and scurry out of sight and harm from the toxic man I was defending them from.

“That was not meant for you.” His cold voice slice at my ears, drawing my attention back to the villain. 

“Yeah because a seven year old deserves punishment for trying out for softball,” I vehemently spit.

“Dad is shoving hopeless nonsense into her head.”
“Dad is supporting her, Mark.” Although Mark is my other dad, I refuse to call him by the same term of endearment I call my other father, Josh. How could I bring this dirt bag to the same level as my father? The answer: I wouldn’t. 

Our icy voices, attempting to cut the other up, are no match for the backed-up fiery rage ready to explode. I stare defiantly into the beast’s eyes, only receiving more fear and unease from his dead yet vicious gaze. Back down. Back down. You’re going too far. He opens his mouth as I anticipate his volcano to rain havoc on me. Too late. 

“I won’t pay for any of it,” he replies, surprising me with his soft response.

“It’s not like you pay for any of our activities,” slips out before I could stop myself. 

“I provide you shelter and food. I think I deserve—no I demand your graciousness and respect.”

“Like you deserved and then demanded the same from Dad after you forced us to stop traveling.” Yep. I’m dead. Soooooo dead. Breath fire on me, asshole. 

Instead, I get a very heated glare. 

“I don’t need to explain myself to a thirteen year old. Go to your room. Neither you or the pathetic brats are eating dinner tonight.”

“But how will we give your our graciousness and respect?” I mock. Why do you have a death wish today? Run! I book it up to my room, finding it occupied by my siblings. 

“Ash, why did you say that to Dad,” my sister asks. She is the seven year old who tried out for softball and did not hate Mark as much as I did. In my opinion, seven is too young to have anger in the soul. But then again, I was not much older when I started to despise Mark. 

I sigh, knowing that I hoped Taylor and Bryce actually went to do their homework instead of eavesdropping. No such luck.
“I was just defending your right to play softball like how Bryce and I get to play baseball. Don’t worry about it. Dad will pay, and we’ll practice with you.” Taylor smiles widely. 

“Can he afford all three of us?” Bryce perks up. He is only nine, but he is very perceptive for his age. 

“Of course he can. Like I said, don’t worry about it. Now, please guys. I’ve got homework to do. Go do yours.”
“I need math help!”
“Me too!”

“All right. All right. I’ll help both of you, but in half an hour. Try out some of the problem for me.”

They file out the door, and I shut it. 

I collapse on the bed, intending for my worries to drift from my body. Instead, they weigh down on me. 

The confrontation I just had with Mark usually occurred everyday. Unless we are at Dad’s house, which is once a week every month. We’ve been on this schedule every since Mark and Dad got a divorce back when I was nine years old. Coming up five years this weekend. 

I hate the situation my siblings and I were thrown into. We are sentenced to live with Mark because his sister is our surrogate mother, placing more ownership of us to Mark. Also, he is the head CEO of this big technology company. He makes bank unlike Dad who is a garbage man, who made a decent enough living. His house and car were junk though compared to Mark’s mansion and many luxury cars. Mark comes home every day at seven. Although he might as well not because he continues to do work up until he goes to bed. He thinks himself a big deal because he’s a gay man in a powerful position. Being gay doesn’t make you special. 

Dad, a truly special human being, comes home at two, just half an hour before we come home from school. Dad spends time with us—family dinners, park outings, movie showings, board games, etc. 

Thinking about the great times inevitably makes me think of the past. 

We were all so happy. My fathers had known each other for years before they were able to get married. They had a civil union before but Dad always wanted something more. He is an old fashioned type of guy.

They wanted a family and were lucky enough to find hope for one with Aunt Janet. I love Aunt Janet. I thank her everyday for myself and my siblings. Carrying three children at three different times for someone else is stupid brave. How she did it, I will never understand. 

I was five years old when Bryce came along. I always wanted siblings, so I took Bryce immediately under my wing. Those were the glory years. We traveled all over the world. Name a place, and I guarantee I’ve been there. We saw, tasted, smelled, and experienced diverse cultures, people, and worlds. 

We lived this way for years. Until abruptly that life shattered into shards of painful memories. 

Aunt Janet had been raped, impregnated with who would be Taylor. This partly explains why Mark hates Tay. She, in his mind, is a bastard child, unworthy of this world, and should have been terminated. Dad thought otherwise and told Aunt Janet they would be more than thrilled to take her in.

This forced us back to New York because Mark took up a permeant job to spite Dad as this would stop our traveling. We also decided to permanently reside here because Aunt Janet wanted to see us kids more. 

“I have rights to my spawns, ya know!” She jokingly screamed. 

I regret Taylor never traveling. She never felt freedom, living in one place and going to public school chains her down. Of course she doesn’t know what she is missing out on, but anyone can tell that Bryce, Dad, and I miss our old life immensely. Our shoulders sag when international news came on; our eyes unfocused, lost in memory, when Taylor asks for an adventure story. 

This is when the fighting really began. When we had Taylor entered our lives, Mark refused to take care of the “bastard.” Dad didn’t have a job, so he took care of her and home schooled Bryce and me. 

Those two years…well it depends on the viewing of the glass. Half full or half empty. 

Spending time with Taylor was always spectacular. Particularly messing with her or reading to her. Dad still took us out of the house. We have some phenomenal memories at the water park and museums.

Mark darkened our sunshine with his despise for his job, Taylor, and his life. He took it out on all of us, yelling and screaming at us. He tried to punish us, but Dad was usually there to save us. 

One day, Dad wasn’t there. I was though. 

Taylor, just three years old, spilled water on Mark. 

“Why you dirty little bastard!” I heard him bellow from my room. I darted to Taylor, finding Mark, belt in hand, ready to crack down on her. I tossed myself in front of Taylor, feeling the bite of his belt. My chest flared up with stinging pain. 

“MARK!” I had never heard Dad raised his voice so loud. It shook me just as badly as Mark’s hit.

Dad raced in the room, pushed Mark aside, and knelt beside me. He picked up Taylor and tried to calm her. Mark glared at me the entire time. 

“Ash, are you okay?”
I attempted to sit up. The room spun. I will not throw up. I will not throw up. I will not pass out. I will not pass out. 

I repeated that and took deep breaths until my head and stomached righted themselves. My chest was still ablaze. Dad soothed my back while rocking Taylor in his arms. Mark had vanished, locking himself up in his room. Bryce replaced where he stood. 

“I feel okay now.” I said when in actuality I just felt slightly better. The pulsing sting wouldn’t let me forget the pain. 

“Are you sure?”
I nodded.

“Okay then. Let’s pack our things.” 

We each helped the other pack our clothes and favorite toys. We were escaping this dungeon that we had been captivated in for much too long.

“Dad, why aren’t you packing?” Bryce asked. 

“I won’t be going to Aunt Janet’s tonight. I’ll join you guys tomorrow.” 

I wish he came with us that night because he could have comforted Aunt Janet better than nine year old me. That night, Mark called up for the divorce papers and made Dad sign them. Dad tried to talk Mark out of it, not wanting to act so hastily. But it was a lost cause. He knew that the man he fell in love with existed no longer, warped by rotten beliefs.   

There had been a battle over us siblings. Dad knew he had slim changes of winning us over because he currently held no job or owned a house. So Aunt Janet also entered the fight for us. She had come to the realization that her once warmhearted brother was nothing but a repulsive shell, a wicked ghost, a fallen shadow of the great person he was. 

Mark ended up winning us because he was seen as the most financially and mentally stable. He could provide better shelter, education, and care apparently in the court’s eyes. Mark argued that Aunt Janet, though a perfect candidate, was a nurse with busy hours and had given up these children for those reasons, which had not change. 

The only unfortunate thing for Mark was he had to take all three of us because they court would not allow us to be separated. 

So here we are today. 

Dad got a job as a garbage man and co-owns Aunt Janet’s house that we see once a week every month. Next week is when we go. I can’t wait but I need to focus on this week. I would give anything for this week to have some ordinariness. Then again, my ordinariness is a unique hell. 

Yet this week has to be what will probably be the worst week in my life for a long time.

I turn fourteen this Saturday. 

Usually fourteen has no importance. It’s not like turning thirteen and a teenager in the same day. No parties are thrown like for new fifteen year olds. There certainly isn’t the same amount of excitement when receiving a driver’s license at sixteen. 

Turning fourteen for kids with divorced parents manifests immense significance past all other birthdays.

I will finally have a say to which parent/guardian I want to live with. So of course I want to choose Dad. I want out of this hellhole. I dealt with this crap for too long. I want to enjoy my high school years, not wish for college to finally arrive so I can leave. 

But there is a catch that will always yank me back to Mark’s abyss, a catch that he is counting on. 

I can only speak for myself. Asking to live with Dad, means my freedom. I’d abandon my siblings, leaving them vulnerable to the monster. I could sway the divorce counselor with my experience with Mark. If I tell them how physically and verbally abusive he is, surely he would rule my siblings and I to be turned over to Dad immediately.    

Nevertheless, Mark is ahead of me on this. Dad, being the foolish kind person he is, never reported that Mark whipped me. If I bring it up, it would seem like Dad was trying to cover it up, incriminating him along with Mark. This would result in all three of us going to foster care. 

I sit up on the edge of my bed. Not god damn fair.

I have an impossible choice for me to make. Stay or go. Remain or leave. 

I put my head in my hands. The uncertainty pounds in my skull, scorches my veins, and sickens me to my stomach.

No. I couldn’t go. Who would defend Taylor? Who would shield them both? Both are too young. Too innocent. They need me to protect hem from Mark. 

Mark. His foulness stains my brain. Screw him. He destroyed this family. 

He should be the one to leave, and then I wouldn’t have to make this decision. We could all be living happily with Dad. Just thinking of the good times tears at my gut. I don’t want to feel these cuts. I’ve suffered enough; I deserve happiness. 

No. I can’t. I won’t. 

Mark’s repulsion continues to mar my mind, ripping the shards of good memories from my wounds, exposing my agony. 

I feel the slaps, I head the words, I see his distaste. 

If I really have decided to stay, why do I keep saying I have a decision? I torment myself. 

Because I’m a sick bastard whose still deciding. 

Every blow Mark’s horribleness hits with me knocks me down, taking my breath and will power. 

Maybe I can request for more time with Dad. Two weeks each month. That’s a good compromise. That we could survive with.

Yes. Yes.

I pick up my cellphone from my desk.

“ASH! It’s been half an hour!”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I sigh.

I dial the number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Asher Cabrera. I want to request a change in my living status.”